


forty-five steps to stumbling ass-backwards into love

by somewhereelse



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: TC as college teammates who love needling the shit outta each other. They might be really (but reluctantly)fondof the other but they’ll never ever,everadmit it. They’redefinitelynot half in love or anything.Or, quick scenes of these two annoying each other into like,like.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 64
Kudos: 542





	1. 1-10

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this prompt list on Tumblr, and my brain went, wonder if you could make a fic from that just going in order, and I was like, but _why?_ , and now here we are.

1\. _**“Don’t look at me like that.”**_

Tobin catches the bag of ice but throws a glare at Christen and her knowing smirk. 

So what if she decided to fight the post and lose? So what if Christen had yelled at her from the other side of the pitch not to even try it? So what if Kelley was attempting an assist from the top row of the bleachers?

This is _not_ Tobin’s fault.

If anything, she’s the _brave_ one. Christen doesn’t have an unspoken badge of honor from being the one to always accept a challenge. Christen doesn’t have the unending respect of her fellow teamma—

“Ow! Hey!”

Christen doesn’t have a visible bruise on her shoulder that smarts when yet another ice pack lands on her. Tobin grumbles some more as she takes over holding the pack in place from Christen’s warm hands, but her rolling eyes express the thanks she’ll never say out loud.

* * *

2\. _**“Fancy seeing you here.”**_

Christen calls out, seeing the sole occupant of the pitch. She spotted Tobin half a block away, her juggling form unmistakable when it could have been any of the other girls, or maybe even one of the guys. She should have known Tobin would be out here, hours before practice, after their disaster of a game last night.

“Hey,” is the quiet, unusually subdued greeting.

Once she gets close enough, Tobin passes her the ball, not even trying to nutmeg her. 

That’s how she knows it’s bad. 

None of them had a good game. The midfielders and the forwards never clicked, and the defenders were absolutely bushed by the second half. But Tobin—Tobin had their only good look, and it went wide.

Christen knows exactly what to do. She ignores the cones and poles set out and dribbles to about the spot where Alex had gotten the cross off. Tobin stares at her, fists clenched, mouth in a firm line, body radiating anger. Then she uncurls, shakes her arms loose, and trudges to the corner of the box.

Christen sends in the cross, Tobin chests it down, and it rattles the frame.

She grabs another ball. This one goes over. The next sails into the top right corner. Over and over and over until the rest of the team arrives, and Coach yells at them for wrecking their bodies the day after a rough game.

* * *

3\. _**“What, are you scared?”**_

Christen teases when the street lamp above them goes out suddenly, and Tobin full on yelps and collides into her back.

“No,” she immediately denies but wraps both hands around Christen’s bicep and clings to her side.

Even though Tobin can’t see it, Christen rolls her eyes and comes to a stop, turning until she thinks she’s facing the other girl. With a suppressed grin, Christen whispers, “ _Lumos_ ,” and, like _magic_ , there’s a faint glow between them.

In the bluish light, Tobin looks awed and transfixed but then she glances down to find the source of the light, and it’s Christen’s cell phone, face up and screen on.

“You’re such a dork,” Tobin whines, turning and setting off for the next street corner with a working light bulb.

“And you’re such a _baby!_ ” Christen taunts, jogging to catch up, “Can’t wait to tell the team you’re scared of the dark.”

* * *

4\. _**“Are you always this stupid, or are you just trying to impress me?”**_

Tobin blinks then just stares at Christen.

She knows Christen is just joking. She knows it. Knows it from the exasperated tone and the rolling eyes and the two-handed smoothing down of her ponytail and the gnawed lower lip. Tobin _really_ knows that gnawed lower lip.

That’s not... what’s important right now.

What’s important right now is that Christen is definitely joking but she might also be hitting close to a truth?

Which Tobin is kind of just realizing herself?

“Uh,” she falters. Her ball’s rolled away, inconveniently, at some point, no longer a necessary distraction. Why can’t she just nutmeg her way out of this awkward moment? “I mean. Whatever you need to believe, CP. Not my fault I’m better than you.”

Then Tobin runs. Literally runs away from the awkwardness and a now pissed off Christen and her own revelation.

* * *

5\. _**“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”**_

Christen is shivering, standing in the middle of the locker room without her shirt on. That’s because her previously white training shirt is now tie-dyed a bright, neon, highlighter pink. And there’s one obvious culprit. Someone who asked her to try tie-dying this weekend and was obviously annoyed when Christen said “no.” Said “no” and added on that she didn’t trust Tobin with temporary Easter egg dye, never mind the permanent stuff.

When she turns around to give her best unimpressed stare, Tobin is grinning smugly, an expression that drops for a second as she glances at Christen’s bare stomach, once then twice more.

“Good thing my favorite color’s pink,” she shrugs and gamely pulls the shirt on, “but you’re explaining this to Coach.”

Tobin, _obviously_ , denies any blame.

But that’s fine because next week, Tobin’s shirt _and_ shorts end up a bright, neon, highlighter orange. Christen grins to herself when Tobin sighs, “Good thing my favorite color’s orange.”

* * *

6\. _**“Nice shirt. Did you get it from my grandma’s closet?”**_

Tobin snickers to herself at her own insult.

Christen slaps at her shoulder but smiles anyway. “Shut up, I like it.”

“You look like my grandma,” Tobin repeats with another smirk.

This time, Christen adopts a haughty look. “Well, then, your grandmother has good taste. So does your mom. Did it skip your generation?” she asks, plucking at the sleeve of Tobin’s ratty hoodie from high school.

It takes her a second, because Christen’s touch on the inside of her wrist is, like, slowing down her brain cells or something, but then, “Hey!”

* * *

7\. _**“You can stop pretending to be tough now. It’s just me.”**_

The locker room is empty. The team cleared out long ago, and the last of the medical staff just minutes before. Christen can feel the griminess of her kit, the unavoidable dirt and sweat of a hard game, sticking to her uncomfortably.

She’s not going to move, though. Not for the world. Not yet.

There’s a pained groan, one Christen’s all too familiar with. When she finally lifts her head, Tobin’s eyes are glassy, the skin around them tight with lines, all traces of her baby face gone.

“ _Chris_ ,” her whisper sounds wrecked, “It’s my _knee_.”

Immediately, she’s on the bench next to Tobin. Their whole sides are pressed together, but she won’t put an arm around her or anything. That would be crossing a line.

“Put that attitude away. It could just be a bad knock. Ice and painkillers now and x-ray in the morning. I don’t want your sad sack whining.”

Her words are sharp and crisp and no nonsense, and Tobin almost gives her a smile when she retorts, “Yes, ma’am. When did Becky make _you_ captain?”

“Don’t call me _ma’am_ ,” Christen gasps in exaggerated horror, “or you’ll find out what a busted knee really feels like.”

That gets her the smile she’s been looking for.

* * *

8\. _**“Do you always use that line when trying to pick up girls?”**_

Christen squints one eye and stares suspiciously at the two beers Tobin returned with, _on the house_ based on the larger bill she threw in the tip jar.

“What line?” Tobin asks with a smirk poorly concealed behind her glass.

Aside from pursing her lips, Christen doesn’t respond. Next round is her shout after all.

Twenty minutes later, Christen returns from the bar with another set of free drinks. God, how does this place even stay in business? And why is she getting more satisfaction from the annoyed scrunch to Tobin’s forehead than the phone number of the admittedly hot bartender in her hand?

* * *

9\. _**“Please don’t make me say it.”**_

Tobin’s pouting and putting on her best puppy dog eyes. Maybe keeping that act up will distract herself from the way Christen has her cornered in the locker room. She’s got a dangerous smirk on her face, a combination of smug and gleeful, as she leans in and obliterates Tobin’s personal space.

It’s distractingly _hot_.

No, wait, just like a _normal_ amount of distracting. Nothing _hot_ about it.

Tobin still swallows, a little nervously, when Christen tilts her head and her curls tumble forward, making the space even more intimate. Damn it, she’s too gay for this.

“Say it!” Christen demands in a low whisper, her eyes sparking playfully but fiercely.

“ _Fine_ ,” Tobin chokes out before she passes out from sensory overload, “You won.”

Christen throws her arms up and victory dances away from Tobin as half the locker room whoops in celebration. Heart pounding, Tobin sags against the wall and ignores Kelley pulling a face that’s the human equivalent of OMFG.

* * *

10\. _**“I can’t tell if I’m in love with you or if all that cold medicine I took is finally starting to kick in.”**_

Christen sniffles as she contemplates the bowl of chicken noodle soup Tobin all but forced on her. It’s the first thing she’s been able to smell all week and the first solid food that hasn’t made her want to go pay homage to the porcelain god. She looks up, proud of herself for managing to come up with something close to witty with this much medicine coursing through her system, and finds Tobin staring at her.

Tobin’s adorably wide-eyed behind her glasses, hands fidgeting inside the extra long sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt. “Wh— _what?_ ”

Christen holds up the bowl, tilts the remnants a little but not enough to spill, and clarifies, “Thanks for this? It’s, like, the only thing that’s made me feel human in days. _Days_ , Tobin.”

“Oh, right,” Tobin whips her head around to look at the door. “You’re good, right? Don’t need anything else? ’Kay, see you later, CP. Feel better!”

Then she bounces off the corner of the bed and is gone.

“Huh?” Christen asks the soup and gets no response.

Maybe Tobin will make more sense when her head isn’t full of fog. Doubtful, but _maybe_.


	2. 11-20

11\. _**“What’s with the sunglasses?”**_

Tobin yells, jumping on Christen’s back for good measure. She makes a wild grab for said sunglasses but gets thrown off just in time. For someone who grew up without a brother, Christen has awfully good instincts, but then Tobin remembers that sisters can be the worst, too.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Christen whisper-yells, joined by half the team also sporting ridiculously huge sunglasses.

Tobin laughs, definitely louder than necessary, and gets an actual shoe thrown at her back. Following Christen up the stairs to the bus, she literally tugs on the ponytail swinging in her face. “Don’t worry, I’ll still let you to sit next to me, all hungover and gross.”

Christen jerks to a stop, just to lower her sunglasses and level a _Glare_ at Tobin, who laughs again. As penance, she lets Christen fall asleep on her shoulder and doesn’t move an inch, not even when her arm falls asleep, too.

* * *

12\. _**“That sounded way cooler in my head.”**_

Tobin frowns and wrinkles her nose, then she sighs because she knows what’s coming next.

“Title of your autobiography,” Christen quips, running past.

By the time she catches up— _who_ told Christen she could turn on the jets during practice?—Tobin’s out of breath. “Title of _your_ autobiography,” she pants out, and it’s definitely not the snappy comeback she was trying for. 

Christen must really feel sorry for her because she slows down, just enough that Tobin’s legs don’t try to make her run off the nearest cliff, so that their paces match. Tobin grins to herself because, really, that’s all she wanted. A little more time with Christen even if it’s in the middle of practice.

* * *

13\. _**“Is that my shirt?”**_

Christen doesn’t even know why she’s bothering to ask. There’s a 23 on the left side of the chest, and so probably on the back, too. And, oh, yeah, it’s _tie-dyed bright pink_.

“Hmm,” Tobin mumbles noncommittally. She plucks at the fabric to look at the number then smirks up at Christen. “Oh, hey, look at that. Must be.”

“It’s game day, Tobin. Can I have it back?”

“Nah, it’s comfy. Fits me just right, too.”

“Yeah, weird. It’s almost like we wear the same size or something,” Christen mutters sarcastically. 

When Tobin simply shrugs and goes back to lacing up her cleats, she throws her hands up and heads for her locker to find a spare shirt. It’s just that, somehow, the pink monstrosity has become her warm-up shirt on game days and she’s not a big fan of having her routine disrupted, especially by Tobin of all people. But arguing about this petty theft for any longer is just going to throw her off even more, so she lets it go _for now_.

And there, sitting on her shelf, is an orange shirt with 17 on the chest, neatly folded and freshly laundered. She has no idea what’s going through Tobin’s head these days, or _ever_ really, but she’s more than a little surprised by the exchange. Christen picks it up and rolls her eyes, pretends to not notice that there’s a silly smile on her face. 

And when Tobin slings a sweaty arm around her shoulders and leads them away from the guy in her bio lab who’s been trying to ask her out and the girl who’s been showing up after every game trying to get Tobin out to some bar for celebratory drinks, Christen pretends not to notice that, too.

* * *

14\. _**“Oh, well that’s very mature of you.”**_

Christen says it with an eye roll, and it makes Tobin puff her cheeks out even more.

The fact that there’s still most of seven Oreos jammed in her mouth as a result of a bet she won against Kelley makes no difference. Tobin very carefully chews and swallows systematically. She and Jeffrey have played this game too many times not to be cautious. When her mouth is mostly clear, Tobin mumbles, “You're just mad we ate all your Oreos."

“ _Of course_ , I’m mad you ate all my Oreos,” Christen confirms in an exasperated tone. “Tobin, you can’t just eat other people’s—”

Tobin tosses the package in Christen’s lap and grins triumphantly when Christen raises her eyebrows. “There you go. Have some replacement Oreos.”

“If you had these, why did you eat mine?” Christen asks, inspecting the package like it’s going to burst open with snakes or something.

“Because,” Tobin blows out a hard sigh and drops onto the bench next to her, “you only ever let yourself buy the crappy OG Oreos, when everyone knows Double Stuf is way better. So. You’re welcome for eating all the crappy Oreos and for getting you the actually good ones.”

With a _fond_ —that’s what it looks like and Tobin’s holding onto it—eye roll this time and a slight smile, Christen rips open the seal and then offers it to Tobin. “Want one?”

Pulling a face and then rubbing her stomach, Tobin mutters, “No, my tummy hurts.”

* * *

15\. _**“Don’t flatter yourself.”**_

It’s a taunting _“Jealous?”_ from Christen that gets the uncharacteristically flat response out of her. Christen who’s waving a slip of paper with a girl’s phone number scribbled on it. This stupid bet she has with Ali is making both her and Ashlyn grit their teeth.

_Obviously_ for different reasons. _Ashlyn_ is jealous, Tobin is... 

Tobin is going to get that barista’s number, is what she’s going to do. Because she’s been single for too long, and Christen raking in phone numbers by simply not nipping it in the bud early, is just making that hard to forget. She’s _not jealous_. Obviously.

“It’s okay,” Christen soothes as she logs the tally but then tosses the number into a trash can they pass.

“What’s okay?” Tobin grits out, trying to ignore the way Christen’s hand wraps around her wrist as she falls back into step beside her.

Christen leans in close then plants an obnoxiously loud kiss on her cheek. “You’re still my favorite number 17.”

Tobin pretends she’s not blushing and exclaims, “No way that was 17!” Which prompts Christen to start recounting them all, which is not what Tobin thinks of as entertainment. When they get to the cafe, she lets Christen order for them both while she claims a table. It’s not like Tobin _needs_ the barista’s number or anything.

* * *

16\. _**“How long have you been standing there?”**_

“Long enough to enjoy the view,” is Tobin’s infuriating reply.

Christen hates yoga with an audience. It is not, contrary to Tobin’s claims, a _spectator_ sport. That’s why she comes to the gym early and finds a quiet studio, just for herself.

Despite her few vague attempts at getting Tobin to establish a consistent practice, it’s clear that Tobin has zero interest. Well, she has _some_ interest. It’s just not on improving her flexibility.

Tobin’s interest seems to be firmly on _Christen’s_ flexibility.

She moves slowly into Warrior II and catches Tobin’s eye in the mirror. For a second, until Tobin’s gaze drifts along her extended arms. 

“What are you even doing here?” she asks in a low whisper, trying to maintain the peacefulness of her morning routine.

Tobin just shrugs. She takes a silent step to the side and leans against the wall then slowly sinks to the floor. She sits, legs kicked out, and watches as Christen moves through her vinyasa.

Christen knows that if she tells her to leave, Tobin would. She always has before, going off to another part of the gym for her own workout. But this time, she’s so quiet and still that Christen can almost forget she’s there, aside from the tingly sensation of being watched.

The next time Christen happens to catch sight of Tobin, she exhales harshly and loses her breathing rhythm. Before trying to re-establish her flow, she whispers, “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Tobin— _shirtless_ Tobin, sitting there in her sports bra and sweatpants with a light sheen of sweat outlining her abs—shrugs, a bare hint of a smirk shining through. “You made it hot in here, CP.”

She has the room gently heated at 80 degrees, not hot by any standard of hot yoga. But, of course, that’s not _at all_ how Tobin means it, not with her voice that strained and her eyes still fixated. Christen almost smiles but she knows Tobin would catch it with how closely she’s watching.

Morning yoga is always stimulating. It’s just a little _more_ stimulating this morning.

* * *

17\. _**“In the right lighting, you’re kind of hot.”**_

Christen purses her lips and pretends to exaggeratedly check Tobin out, looking her up and down. There’s nothing exaggerated about it. 

Tobin looks—

Tight, white skinny jeans, rips up and down the legs, and a black crop top showing off her impressive abs. It’s more of Tobin’s skin than she usually sees outside of the locker room. A little makeup, especially around her eyes, and her hair has just enough product in it to make it look less neglected and more purposefully messy. Oh and _heels_. When was the last time Tobin was taller than her? 

So Tobin looks not really like herself but still—

“The _right_ — _Kind of_ hot?!” Allie groans and smacks her forehead. “Pressy, I did not go to this effort for _kind of_. I demand a recount!”

The last exclamation fades into the night as Ali drags Allie down the street, leaving them to bring up the rear.

“That was a ringing endorsement, Chris,” Tobin mumbles, dragging a careless hand through her already tousled hair. “Tell me what you really think.”

Tobin sounds a little dejected which wasn’t her intention _at all_. She was just teasing, especially with the other girls right there waiting to pounce on her reaction. So she hooks a finger into a belt loop and tugs, bringing Tobin to a stop.

Carefully, Christen lets her thumb inch up onto the bare skin of Tobin’s waist. Ignoring the breath they both suck in from the contact, she reaches around and takes hold of her wrist, guiding Tobin to turn until they’re facing each other. 

“Okay,” Christen breathes, soft and slow, “I think you look really, _really_ good. But I think you look best when we’re, like, cozy and comfortable watching a movie together or whatever.”

Tobin’s smile was slow to start but quickly turns into a smug smirk. “In my glasses?”

“You’re _very_ cute in your glasses,” Christen agrees. She swings their hands between them as they start walking again to appease the shouts to catch up. “Allie gets an A for effort. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t kick you out of bed.”

But she’d never do that anyway, no matter what Tobin’s wearing.

* * *

18\. _**“You can’t make me.”**_

It’s a childish response, but for once _Christen_ is being childish. With her arms crossed and her lower lip out in a pout, she still looks stupid goo—like a little kid throwing a temper tantrum. 

“Oh my god. It’s not a big deal. Why can’t you just—”

Yeah, being mad isn’t making Christen more attractive at all. Tobin isn’t thinking about, like, kissing her to shut her up. That would be _outrageous_.

Shaking her head, she tries to get back on track. Mount a defense, if you will. “Because I don’t want to, _Christen_. Who cares if it’s not a big deal? _I_ don’t want to. Why can’t _you_ just respect—”

“Respect? You want to talk about _respect?_ You have been gleefully trampling over every boundary I have since the day we met, Tobin Heath. And _now_ you want to talk about respect?”

That deflates her. Tobin literally shrinks away from Christen’s space, not realizing they were so close. She knows she gets under Christen’s skin, just like Christen gets under hers. Well, maybe not in the _exact_ same ways. Tobin’s always thought it was all in good fun but she’s not the best at reading people. So it makes sense that Christen hasn’t wanted her _always_ around, _always_ poking fun, _always_ —

“Tobin, wait, come back. I do not mean—” Christen sighs, runs a frustrated hand through her hair. “I’m not trying to tank our entire frien— _relationship_ over a piece of tofu.”

Somehow, Christen simply yet deliberately choosing to use _relationship_ over friendship destroys the fear clawing at her insides. So, yeah, fine, Tobin can do this stupid little thing for her—for _Christen_.

“You’re _such_ a Californian,” she teases then opens wide so Christen, brandishing a pair of chopsticks, can finally feed her a piece of tofu.

* * *

19\. _**“I had a dream about you last night.”**_

Christen sighs with deep satisfaction and watches as Tobin, _predictably_ , bolts upright.

“A dream? About _me?”_ Tobin repeats almost mindlessly. Her eyes fixate on Christen’s mouth when she bites down on her lip and nods. “What—what were we doing?”

“Well,” Christen starts out nice and slow, “We were out on the pitch, just the two of us after practice.” She might as well ground this in reality, right? “And we were playing this game. Like you would take a shot and I would have to make the same shot.”

“We were playing HORSE?” Tobin questions suddenly, her eyebrows rising in confusion.

“Kinda. Except if you missed, you didn’t get a letter,” Christen pauses then and waits until Tobin meets her gaze, “You had to take something off.”

The sound Tobin makes is stupid attractive, almost enough to make Christen rethink this half-baked idea of a tease, but she’s in too deep now. “You were doing that rainbow trick. You know the one, right? It’s _so_ impressive, Tobin.”

“Then what happened?” Tobin starts to look a little smug, a little too sure that she knows what’s coming next. “I _scored_ , yeah? Did you take your clothes off for me, Chris?”

Christen leans in as close as she can and smiles, a slow, deeply content smile. Then she reveals, “You tripped over your own feet and completely bit it, and I laughed so hard, I woke myself up.”

Tobin’s face drops, her mouth slack in disbelief. Finally, she collects herself and mutters, “You are _literally_ a cold shower,” while Christen laughs at her crestfallen expression.

* * *

20\. _**“Can you stay a little longer?”**_

Tobin _hates_ the catch in her voice when she asks. 

It’s just that she’s a little homesick. And it’s not _just_ that Christen’s a good distraction but also because Christen, despite being from the complete other side of the country, feels like _home_.

Christen pauses in carrying their mugs to the small sink in the corner. Hot chocolate _and_ marshmallows were the initial enticement to get Christen to her room. She looks over her shoulder, and Tobin shrinks a little more into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Without answering, Christen resumes washing the mugs and setting them to the side. 

Tobin’s not going to ask again. 

It was pathetic enough the first time.

She thinks Christen is headed for her shoes when she walks towards the door, but when she gets there, Christen takes a flying leap from the foot of the bed and lands solidly on Tobin. Ignoring the muffled protests, Christen shifts around until she’s apparently comfortable. She’s settled on her back, stretched diagonally over Tobin, arms and legs flung every direction, which means Tobin is extremely _un_ comfortable as her mattress.

“What? Ow?” Tobin mumbles, confused, her face covered by curls and a shoulder and part of an arm. “I didn’t mean, like, _exactly_ right here.”

“Too bad. You asked. These are my terms of acceptance. Let me know when you want me to leave.”

The words are said breezily, a hint of dismissive superiority to them. Even with hair in her mouth and an elbow jammed in her ribs, Tobin smiles, just like she knows Christen was trying for. And maybe she falls asleep like that, literally grounded to the present by Christen.

Maybe she’ll never get around to asking Christen to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d say we’re almost there but there’s TWENTY-FIVE more of these and they keep getting longer.


	3. 21-30

21\. _**“Quit hogging the blanket.”**_

Christen tugs the fabric closer, but Tobin resists and complains, infuriatingly petulant, “It’s _my_ blanket.”

“Yeah but you’re always”— _hot_ , but Christen shakes that word away—“warm, and I’m always cold, and you’re the one who asked me to stay.”

With a sigh, Tobin relents and gives her approximately three more inches of blanket. Christen rolls her eyes to herself and tries to settle in but then she hears it clearly, the rumble of a car or truck going over the metal plates outside.

“Tobin. Is your freaking _window_ open?” She punctuates each word with her incredulity. 

Christen hasn’t even finished the question before the bed shifts and Tobin’s up and padding across the room. The window shuts with a definitive slam, and from somewhere in the darkness, Tobin grumbles, “Oh my god, are you happy now? Will you can it and go to sleep already, Press?”

It’s not like she’s being unreasonable. Who sleeps with their window open during winter? Still, Christen bites her lip and reluctantly mumbles, “I’m still cold.”

Tobin doesn’t bother responding. She gets back into bed and under the covers. And then Christen finds herself being yanked backwards by the shoulders, until Tobin’s curled around her back, knees folded up behind hers, arms around her waist, face buried in her hair, the whole enchilada of cuddling. Nothing like the playful wrestling or mostly accidental touching that usually happens whenever they sleep in the same bed.

“Better?” Tobin asks, all sleepy sarcasm.

Christen feels it the moment Tobin realizes what she’s done. She freezes, and all their points of contact start to drift apart. But then Christen pats her arm and anchors it in place.

“ _Best._ ”

* * *

22\. _**“Just once, I wanted you to notice me.”**_

When Christen opens her mouth to argue, Tobin is pretty sure about what she’s going to say so she holds up a hand. “Not Tobin Heath the future gold medalist. Not Tobinho the insanely talented juggler, the next Ronaldinho, a magician—”

“Okay, I have never, and will never, call you any of that so if we could leave your ego out of this conversation, that’d be great,” Christen interrupts, eye roll at the ready.

“Okay, okay,” Tobin sighs, forfeiting on using jokes to get out of this serious moment. “I just wanted you to notice _me_. _Just_ me.”

“Tobin, I do. I notice that you love sunrises but hate mornings. I notice that you like church but you love going with Cheney and Amy. I notice that I make you shiver whenever I touch the inside of your wrist and I notice that you love making me shiver whenever you whisper in my ear. I notice way too much about you, honestly.”

“Good,” Tobin says, suddenly smug, and tilts a smile at Christen’s exasperated sigh, “because I notice everything about you, too.”

* * *

23\. _**“Watch where you’re going.”**_

As she says it, Tobin catches Christen by the hips and holds her close, whispering in her ear. The slight shiver is expected, but Tobin grins triumphantly anyway.

Then—

_Then_ Christen puts her hands over Tobin’s and squeezes lightly before ghosting her thumbs over the tendons on the inside of her wrists. Tobin’s still shivering when Christen turns her head and murmurs, “Thanks.”

“Oh my god, just kiss already!”

Ashlyn’s exclamation makes them jump apart, blushing furiously and refusing to look each other in the eye.

“No! You’re supposed to”—simultaneously, they look over to the goal to see Ashlyn making some weird gesture with her hands—“You’re supposed to go the other way. Towards each other!”

Finally, she clasps her hands together and makes loud kissing noises as Christen takes off towards a random ball. Frustrated, Tobin can only yell, “Shut up, Ash!” 

* * *

24\. _**“I can’t do this anymore.”**_

Christen faceplants into her textbook with a groan. After a second, she feels Tobin poking her cheek with the eraser end of her pencil. 

“You alive there, Pressy?”

“No,” she groans again but picks her head back up to look at her unexpected study partner. Surprisingly, Tobin still has her own set of flash cards in her hand. But probably only because Christen zipped both their phones into her backpack.

“Want to take a break?” Tobin suggests eagerly. Then she immediately narrows her eyes and leans across the table, head almost colliding with Christen’s as she squints at the page.

Christen freezes then leans back awkwardly to give her more room. For a second, she thought Tobin was going to _kis_ — And maybe she was a little more prepared for _that_ and a little less prepared for Tobin to take a sudden interest in her psychology book.

“You said you needed to finish the chapter,” Tobin looks up with a frown, seemingly oblivious to how close their faces are.

With a twitch of a smile, Christen nods, “Yeah, I do.”

“Then I take it back. No break,” Tobin says decisively. She leans back into her own seat and tosses her hands behind her head. “I know what’ll happen. You slack off this one time, and then all of a sudden it’s my fault you got a 99 instead of a 100, and you’ll never let me study with you again.”

“Oh so you _like_ studying with me?” Christen teases, trying to reset her brain from her last runaway train of thought.

“Course, I do. More time to annoy you,” she manages a faint, sarcastic smile when Tobin pauses to grin expectantly at her, “Get cracking, CP!”

* * *

25\. _**“I don’t care what you do as long as you leave me out of it.”**_

Christen thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable response for when Tobin and Pinoe come crashing into her room, wild-eyed and, in Pinoe’s case, hair literally standing on end.

“That hurts, Pressy.” Pinoe staggers back, hand on heart.

“I got this,” Tobin says and guides her back out into the hallway.

Well, that’s— Extremely presumptuous and arrogant of her. 

So _what_ if Christen has a bad habit of never really saying “no” to Tobin, of almost always letting her have her way after some token resistance, of failing to be as good an influence as Coach practically begs her to be? That’s no reason for Tobin to act like it’s a sure bet she’ll convince Christen to participate in whatever they’re cooking up. In fact, Christen thinks this is a great time to exercise her saying “no” muscles.

Tobin dials up the puppy dog eyes and starts the pitch with, “So we thought of the perfect birthday present for Cheney.”

“Oh you have to be _kidding_ me!” bursts out of Christen’s mouth.

_Really?_ Of all the times for Tobin to rush into her room with something other than a harebrained idea to wreak chaos for her personal entertainment? It has to be right when Christen decides to take a stand?

“What? What’s wrong?” Confused, Tobin even checks over her shoulders to see if there’s anything behind her that would have drawn that reaction.

“Nothing,” Christen sighs, resigned to her token resistance once more, “What’s the perfect present?”

* * *

26\. _**“Now would be a great time for you to confess your undying love for me.”**_

Tobin says it through gritted teeth with more than a hint of desperation.

Because right now they’ve got that girl who won’t take a hint approaching from one side and from the other side is one of the guys who gave Christen his number during that bet with Ali weeks ago and has been trying to get Christen’s number ever since.

They need an escape route and they need it _now_.

Christen must see them, too, because she isn’t surprised by the suggestion. She’s just her usual stubborn self. “ _You_ confess _your_ undying love for _me_ ,” she argues for the pure sake of arguing.

They don’t have _time_ for this.

Tobin clears her throat, prepares to raise her voice, and steadies her nerves. Sure, she’s used to performing under pressure, but this is different. She’s about to announce something she’s been thinking and feeling for too long, while somehow going to have to pretend later that she didn’t mean a word of it.

“Of course I love you! You’re my best friend—and I know that’s already weird to admit because it seems like all we do is annoy the crap out of each other—but you’re _more_ than my best friend. Christen Press, I’m one hundred percent, head over heels, _in_ —”

Christen slaps a hand over her motoring mouth, grabs her by the other hand, and drags her around the side of the house. By the time they‘re out of the crowd’s sight, they’re in stitches, laughing into their hands to muffle the wheezing noises.

“Oh my god, did you see everyone’s faces?” Christen asks in between uncontrollable fits of giggles.

“You shoulda seen _your_ face,” Tobin retorts without thinking. 

They both freeze. Because, for a second, Christen looked like she didn’t know it was all an act, like she really thought Tobin was going to declare her feelings in the backyard of a frat house. But just for a second. Tobin’s just grateful Christen shut her up before she got to the actual confession part.

“Maybe we should—” she gestures back to the party, and Christen nods eagerly.

* * *

27\. _**“I’m scared of losing you.”**_

Christen says it in a whisper to herself, a quiet confession, as she slowly walks to join her teammates on the pitch, eyes on one in particular.

They’ve been weird around each other ever since the party. Ever since Tobin said words that seemed like a reasonable distraction at the time, a couple of beers in, about to be cornered by two of the most tenacious people on campus. Ever since Christen was struck by the realization that she wants Tobin to say those words. She wants Tobin to say them and _mean_ them.

Which is ridiculous, because even _tipsy_ Tobin knows that they’re friends _despite_ how they’re constantly getting on each other’s nerves.

So why would she even—

How could she possibly—

What on earth is she—

_None_ of it makes sense except it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Christen _likes_ Tobin. Likes everything about Tobin, including—and, quite possibly, _most especially_ —her dedication to annoying the ever-loving crap out of Christen. It’s not just teasing or casual, and not-so-casual, flirting or best friendship or anything less that she’s been trying to excuse it as. 

It might just be her first brush with all-encompassing emotion. Her heart feels too big for her chest, and when she catches a glimpse of Tobin’s wide, blinding smile at something Mal says, she thinks it might just beat right out. What if she says something and Tobin never gives her that smile again? She won’t risk losing Tobin, destroying their team dynamic, or ruining their last shot at a championship run so she’ll have to keep this quiet truth to herself. 

For now.

* * *

28\. _**“I’ve got you.”**_

Tobin rushes over to help Christen off the ground. It was a rough collision, the two of them tangling with a player from the opposing team. Tobin managed to stay on her feet, and the other girl is already walking it off, but Christen took the brunt of the impact from both of them.

Christen’s never been one to milk an injury. So when she stays down for longer than the usual second or two to catch her breath, Tobin worries just a little.

(She says a little. The full sprint back from where she chased down the ref to plead her case says something different.)

Christen doesn’t acknowledge her extended hand. She gets a foot underneath herself then uses both hands on her knee as leverage to get up. Which is fine. That’s totally normal. Tobin probably wouldn’t even notice, except this isn’t the first time this game, or all week, that she and Christen haven’t been on the same page.

And _that’s_ what’s weird. They’re _always_ in sync on the pitch. It’s kind of the backbone of their entire relationship, especially since they live to annoy each other everywhere else in life. So, yeah, maybe she and Christen have been weird since that party, but Tobin could handle that, knowing that everything would be fine once it was game time. Except it’s the middle of a game and it still isn’t _right_.

“Tobin! Move it!”

She looks up to see an intent Christen motioning her down the field and snaps back to reality, taking off at a sprint after her mark. A few minutes later, Christen’s exactly where she needs to be to volley in Tobin’s cross. And when Christen runs straight to her for a celebratory hug, Tobin thinks maybe it’s all been in her head.

* * *

29\. **_“Do you even own a shirt?”_**

If she has to walk into the locker room one more time and be greeted with undeniable proof of Tobin Heath’s inhuman metabolism, Christen might just lose it. 

She has been making a very concerted effort to be normal, _closer to normal_ , around Tobin. She’s gone back to little digs and biting comments and unrepentant sarcasm in an attempt to match Tobin once more. None of this like, _like_ bull hockey when Tobin’s only doing what she’s always done, metaphorically pulling her pigtails a little.

All of her hard work stands to be undone by consistent, unrelenting exposure to Tobin’s abs. Just because they’re upping ice baths and just because someone’s decided to crank up the temperature in the locker room to match, doesn’t mean Tobin (and everyone else) gets to parade around in sports bras and spandex shorts. Never mind that that’s pretty much how it always is in a locker room.

“Oh, yeah, got one right here.” Tobin rummages around the bottom of her locker and comes up with Christen’s tie-dyed shirt that she _still_ hasn’t swapped back. She pulls it over her head and grins, “Better?”

Christen can’t answer. It’s not the first time she’s seen Tobin wearing her shirt since her revelation, but she’s just now recognizing the shock to her system for what it really is: _possessiveness_. She _likes_ Tobin in her clothes, like she likes being in Tobin’s clothes. And that is _so_ not the right answer to anything right now.

She swallows hard and instead asks, “Can I have that back?”

Tobin frowns. With a cross between a scoff and a laugh, she points out, “You _literally_ just told me to put a shirt on.”

“Tobin. Seriously, I mean it. I want my shirt back.” She wants her heart and her sanity back, too, but the shirt seems more realistic.

“ _Seriously, I mean it_ ,” Tobin mimics with a silly grin, oblivious to Christen’s mood, and then argues, “Well, you still have my shirt.” 

Christen does, neatly folded in her top drawer, awaiting their next match since it’s become her game day warm-up shirt. “Okay,” she says slowly, searching for a compromise, “do you want it back?”

“No!” The answer bursts out of Tobin, loud enough to halt the other conversations going on, and they both startle at the volume. “I want _you_ back. I want my best friend. I want you to stop being so damn weird, Chris.” 

Then Tobin, still wearing Christen’s shirt, stomps out of the locker room.

So much for things going back to normal.

* * *

30\. _**“Are you going to eat that?”**_

Tobin asks, already reaching for the cookie on the edge of Christen’s plate. The death glare she gets in response causes her to slowly retract her hand. “Okay, never mind.”

Christen goes back to eating, and Tobin tries to pretend to but she really can’t take the suffocating silence. “Hey, look, I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to yell at you. And you can totally have your shirt back. I washed it and put it in your locker.”

That should cover the bases, right? But Christen is still frowning at her plate, and Tobin doesn’t know what else to apologize for.

Finally, Christen blows out an unsteady sigh. “Thanks, apology accepted. And you’re right. I’ve been weird lately and I can’t really explain it but I’m sorry, too.”

This isn’t what they normally do. Their big conversations are saved for when they sneak out to a field late at night and lie on their backs in the damp grass and spill their secrets out into the universe. But Tobin thinks it’s worth a shot anyway and carefully asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Christen fiddles with her fork but doesn’t say “no.” Eventually, she peeks up through her eyelashes. “Do you ever feel just overcome? Not necessarily in a bad way. Just, like, you’ve got so many feelings, your body can’t possibly hold them all.”

“No,” Tobin lies automatically. Because she feels that way every time she sees Christen. Like her heart’s going to burst with all the feelings she keeps shoving down. But she’s not about to admit that _to Christen_.

“Of course not,” Christen sighs. She tilts a small, _sad_ smile at Tobin. “Never mind then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all get fifteen next time because I am ready to put this to bed.


	4. 31-45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a little trouble figuring out how to peace out of this verse in a way that feels finished.
> 
> (Also, spot the B99 reference.)

31\. _**“You’re not as bad as people say.”**_

Christen mumbles against Tobin’s shoulder and hears a sleepy laugh from above.

“As _you_ say. Chris, you’re the only one who talks shit about me.”

“Lies,” she scoffs and gets a lungful of laundry detergent and _Tobin_ , “Cindy used to curse your existence all the time when you were learning to juggle and breaking everything in the house.”

“Stop believing all my mom’s stories,” Tobin pokes her cheek then traces a slow finger down her nose, “Gonna ruin my street cred.”

“ _What_ street cred?” Christen retorts. Her arms tighten around Tobin’s waist, and her nose burrows deeper into the soft fabric covering Tobin’s shoulder. “You ain’t got no street cred. Only thing you’re good for is cuddling.”

Normally, Christen would be too self-conscious to be this touchy. But she’s exhausted, and Tobin is warm and comfortable and clinging right back. She’s got her right arm holding Christen close, with her fingers tangled in the hem of her pullover. Her left hand rubs Christen’s arm or plays with her hair or touches her face gently. Every so often, her lips brush against Christen’s forehead, fleeting touches on the tail end of a quietly huffed laugh at whatever’s on the TV.

Christen could fall asleep like this.

She could fall in love like this.

* * *

32\. _**“I don’t want to hurt you.”**_

“You think you can?” Christen challenges. “I squat more than you do.”

It’s an actual, physical instinct that Tobin has to fight. If she didn’t, she would have craned her neck to check out Christen’s muscular thighs and firm butt before mindlessly nodding along. Like of course Christen can out-squat her but staring at her ass right now would definitely end up with _Tobin_ hurting.

“Oh my god, Tobs! It’s just a game of chicken. Just wrap your legs around Pressy’s shoulders like we all know you’ve _both_ been fantasizing about,” Ashlyn calls out from the pool and sends a splash of water towards them for good measure.

Tobin’s eyes widen as she turns fire engine red. So does Christen. Then they both choke on air as the team howls with laughter.

* * *

33\. _**“Wait, you’re scared of the dark?”**_

Christen asks as they sit _in the dark_. They’re out on a field, butts on damp grass, having just watched the sunset paint the sky. “I thought you were joking that time, trying to cop a feel.” 

“No,” Tobin grumbles, and Christen just knows she’s pouting. “I’m not scared of the dark. I just don’t like _sudden_ darkness. As long as I know it’s coming, I’m fine.”

“Ah,” Christen mutters as if in understanding, then, “ _Baby_.”

* * *

34\. _**“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Make sure to get it on camera.”**_

“It’ll be _awesome!”_ Tobin argues, all naive excitement.

“It’ll be really hard to explain to the ER doctors!” Christen mimics her enthusiasm with a healthier dose of reality. Except Tobin doesn’t take it that way. Of course not. Why would she suddenly see sense and realize that anything involving a skateboard, a ramp, and a car is not going to end well?

Tobin leans in and smirks. “You sound worried about me, CP. Is that it? Don’t want to play without your favorite middie?”

After a healthy eye roll, Christen drawls sarcastically, “Yeah, that‘s exactly it. Don’t know what I’d possibly do on a field without you. It’s not at all like Cheney has better distribution than you.”

Tobin’s response is a dramatic gasp before she mimes being stabbed and collapses in a heap on the floor.

Christen grins at Kelley and asks, “Did you get that on camera?”

* * *

35\. _**“Was that supposed to impress me?”**_

“Because I can do it better,” Tobin taunts as Christen narrows her eyes and purses her lips.

It’s kind of a gamble, though, because if there’s one area (on the soccer field) where Christen obviously outshines her, it’s shot placement. But if she doesn’t dial up the competitiveness, then all Tobin will focus on is how damn good that shot was, and how good Christen looked pulling it off.

“Bet you can’t,” she mutters in challenge. The annoyance in her tone is practically tangible, and Tobin smiles to herself for getting under her skin so easily.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Tobin runs up to the nearest ball and dribbles it into place. “What’ll you give me if I can?”

This time, Christen scoffs out loud and crosses her arms over her chest. “I am _not_ taking my clothes off for you.”

The adamant declaration almost makes Tobin trip over the damn ball. For a second, she doesn’t know why Christen’s made _that_ leap until she remembers the very cruel trick Christen pulled weeks ago. Interrupting a perfectly good lunch to get Tobin’s hopes up by telling her about that “dream.”

“That’s only a thing in _your_ dreams,” Tobin finally collects herself enough to retort with a complete lie.

By the way Christen blushes and hurries away without a comeback, Tobin thinks that somehow, by the _slimmest_ possibility, maybe she wasn’t too far off.

* * *

36\. _**“Aren’t you forgetting something?”**_

Christen turns back from the door and just stares at her expectantly. Tobin smirks a little, knowing she’s running on fumes after their string of away games and her rescheduled exams. It’s strange to see Christen any amount of disorganized, and maybe kind of endearing to know that she’s human, too.

“Uh,” Christen falters, a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows. She takes a couple steps back towards their table and considers the papers and note cards and highlighters still spread out on the surface. “No?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tobin insists, “It’s just not on the table.”

The hint isn’t the greatest, but Tobin isn’t expecting Christen to turn her full attention onto her. Her skin prickles the longer Christen stares at her. She’s about to offer another hint when Christen shuffles another step closer.

“Bye?” she asks more than says but then— 

_Then_ Christen leans down and very gently kisses Tobin’s cheek. The weight of her backpack means she’s a little unsteady so even though her touch is so very careful, Christen wobbles a little, and her lips lands closer to the corner of Tobin’s mouth than her cheekbone. Tobin’s heart leaps at the touch, but to cover her rising blush, she pushes Christen away. 

“No! Go pay your bill. Who raised you?”

* * *

37\. **_“I don’t want to be like the others.”_**

Christen is so confused. _What others?_ There are no others. The only things she’s been able to think about for months are soccer, classes, and Tobin, and not really in that order. 

“What does that even mean?” she finally asks when Tobin doesn’t actually explain but just fiddles with her sleeves.

“If you wanted to hang out with other people, you can, you know?”

It doesn’t really answer her question or explain what Tobin was talking about. Or maybe it does. Somehow, Christen knows exactly how the thoughts are connected in Tobin’s mind. Tobin thinks she’s monopolizing her time or keeping her from other people like the groupies after their games. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

“So can you,” she points out. Neither of them move an inch. Finally, Christen shrugs and offers, “I’m where I want to be.”

Tobin’s shoulders slump in what Christen thinks is relief, and she smiles at the table as she says, “Me too.”

* * *

38\. _**“I’m tired of running from my problems.”**_

Tobin’s face must be one big question mark because when has Christen _ever_ run from her problems? She’s the most mature college student Tobin’s ever met. And, no, that’s not a low bar to clear just because she and Kelley are the _least_ mature college students ever.

Christen doesn’t run from her problems. She formulates a strategy, color codes it in her planner, then executes the plan with ruthless efficiency and single-minded determination. She’s every parent’s and coach’s dream come true.

“What problems?” Tobin finally thinks to ask. It can’t be her family (pretty much perfect) or her grades (actually perfect) so it must be soccer-related? “Your headers?”

“No,” Christen sighs, heavy and frustrated. Her hands flail out before starting to gesture between them.

Tobin feels panic bloom in her chest. Christen can’t mean that _they_ are the problem. She’s been so careful to keep things light and easy and _normal_ ever since Christen admitted to being overwhelmed at times, and maybe she didn’t _say_ that Tobin was part of the problem, but it was pretty easy to read from her actions. Sure, they still spend an unexplainable amount of time together, but she can back off more, she can stop being so touchy and flirty and annoying, she really can. Tobin can do anything as long as she doesn’t ruin their friendship by trying to hold onto Christen without ever dealing with what she _really_ wants from her best friend.

”We have to—” Christen starts to say, but Tobin is already scrambling for her backpack. “Where are you _going?”_

“Away?” Tobin mumbles around the highlighter jammed in her mouth. With a grimace, she takes it out and continues, “There’s no problem here, Chris. I’ll just go, yeah?”

Out of nowhere, Christen’s hand fists in the collar of her t-shirt and yanks until they’re eye-to-eye. Instinctively, Tobin gulps nervously and tells herself not to look at Christen’s lips, which are right— _oh_ , too late.

“ _I_ am not running from my problems, which means _you_ are not going _anywhere_.”

Tobin can easily see Christen’s grim determination in the hard clench of her jaw and the firm set of her lips. Is it wrong that she finds this hot? Well, her best friend is having some sort of crisis that somehow involves her, and Tobin can only think about how this sudden aggressiveness is just like the start of several fantasies she’s had so, yeah, she should probably focus.

On one level, she’s gotten used to this frequent, heart-racing push-and-pull between them, but on every other level, she will _never_ get used to how Christen makes her feel. With concerted effort, Tobin tries to calm her breathing and deliberately looks Christen right in the eye. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Christen nods decisively. 

Then she looks down, and Tobin wonders what she’s looking at for a second before it dawns on her. Christen’s staring at Tobin’s lips like just a minute ago Tobin was staring at Christen’s lips.

Just as soon as the thought finishes crossing her mind, her brain blanks out entirely. Because Christen is kissing her, and nothing else matters, and Tobin thinks she might float away, untether from the earth and reach the heavens because this has to be it. Then Christen nips her bottom lip, a little roughly, and Tobin makes this needy sound that she’d be embarrassed by except Christen takes that as a sign to drag her back onto the bed by the shirt collar she’s still gripping.

If only Tobin had an ounce of her typical grace, but Christen’s completely overwhelmed her, and Tobin can’t get her limbs to work right. Her usually faultless feet end up tripping over her abandoned backpack. In the almost worst case scenario, her lips pull away from Christen’s as she lands heavily, awkwardly on top of her. The only saving grace is that they didn’t bash their heads together.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Tobin scrambles to sit up, but Christen’s still got that hand holding her shirt, and Tobin, happily, doesn’t get far. There’s a silly smile on Christen’s face, one she’s trying to temper by biting down on her already swollen bottom lip, but all it’s doing is giving Tobin _ideas_. 

“You’re right. You do have a problem,” she says in an even lower rasp than usual because there’s no hiding the way Christen’s kiss stole her breath.

Tobin watches as the happy light flickers out of Christen’s eyes. Her face starts to twist into panic, and her hand falls limply from Tobin’s shirt. Frantically, Tobin rewinds in her brain and realizes she could _not_ have phrased that worse.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like—” Tobin exhales a sigh. It’s hard to try to be all cute and flirty now that Christen’s freaked out. “I was going to say, you need some practice kissing, but it’s a good thing I can help you out with that.”

Predictably, Christen shoves at her shoulder and gives her an eye roll and a (cute) pout. “You’re _such_ a jerk.”

“ _Your_ jerk?” Tobin offers hopefully as she feels her own silly grin stretching across her face.

“Only because I feel bad for you,” Christen agrees, with a hard glare that disappears as quick as it came, “You know, because you need _so much_ practice kissing. And if _I_ don’t help you, who will?”

Tobin rolls her eyes but lets her get away with that one since they’ve got other “problems” to work on.

* * *

39\. _**“You’re really bad at the whole flirting thing.”**_

Christen grumbles and pulls away for the sheer principle of the matter. She’s not going to let Tobin get away with a line as lame as that. She has _standards_.

“Then why are you _here?”_ Tobin emphasizes her question with a not-so-subtle pat to Christen’s ass. _Here_ being in Tobin’s bed, lying mostly on top of her, rounding second base and heading for third (she thinks, Christen’s never been a softball girl obviously), during a _private_ practice session that earned them some weird looks from the team when they all but sprinted out of the locker room with the incredibly flimsy excuse.

Rolling her eyes, Christen sits up completely and leans against the wall, ignoring Tobin’s own grumbles now that her hand is no longer in Christen’s shorts. “Masochism?” she shrugs, “I should take that psychology class next semester to find out.”

Tobin flings her arms up over head. Her shirt rides up, too, and Christen immediately sneaks a glance at the lines of her abs. “You really want to talk about classes right now?”

“No,” Christen answers matter-of-fact. Her fingers follow her eyes, and before she knows it, her hand’s under Tobin’s shirt. “Still had to be said. Since we’re here for, like, _practice_ and improvement.”

“I”—an annoyed crinkle disrupts Tobin’s forehead before she exhales shakily under Christen’s touch—“What were we talking about? Can’t we just go back to making out?”

After all this time looking, it’s some kind of gratifying that Christen can make Tobin lose her train of thought just by touching her stomach. So even though it goes entirely against why she stopped, Christen’s response is to lean down and kiss her again. 

Who needs principles?

* * *

40\. _**“Tell your mom I said hi.”**_

“Why would I do that?” Christen mutters, glaring at her phone. 

Somehow, Tobin gets the feeling the phone is just a stand-in and hasn’t actually annoyed Christen. Carefully, she replies, “Because she likes me?”

Christen arches an eyebrow and sarcastically, and probably rhetorically, asks, “ _Does_ she?”

Oh boy. Tobin is not equipped to verbally spar with a visibly annoyed Christen. Maybe a couple weeks ago she would have leaped at the chance, but she feels like the longer this goes on, the softer she gets around Christen. It’s getting harder and harder to purposefully get on Christen’s nerves, especially now that there are so many more interesting things to do with their time together.

“Then again she likes all my _friends_.” There’s a sharp, bitter quality to Christen’s tone, and her last word about stops Tobin’s heart. “That’s what we are, right? _Friends?”_

“No,” Tobin automatically denies, but then her eyes widen, “Is that what _you_ think we are?”

“ _No_ ,” Christen deflates on a sigh. Her lips purse as she thinks, and Tobin fidgets uncomfortably, waiting for more of an explanation about how they ended up in this conversation. “After the game, you told that girl you were going out with your friends to celebrate. Then it was just us.”

Oh. She didn’t think Christen was close enough to overhear the excuse she gave to escape and she didn’t think— Well, she just didn’t think. And, honestly, she just doesn’t _know_ what else they are. Tobin knows what she wants but, aside from soccer, she’s got a habit of letting things happen for her, instead of going after them herself. Normally, she’d be fine sticking to that, but this feels like a pivotal moment, and Christen is too important. She has to at least _try_ putting herself out there.

“I like when it’s just us,” Tobin confesses quietly, getting a small smile in response. “And I’d like it if—”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Christen blurts out the question, and Tobin releases a deep sigh and rolls her eyes. “You can’t make _all_ of the first moves, Christen! I wanted to ask!”

“Then _ask_ already! You’re being so _slow_ ,” Christen rolls her eyes right back, “It’s one thing on the pitch. It’s another thing in bed. It’s a whole other—”

“I am _not_ slow on the pitch!” Tobin retorts, “And you _like_ when I’m—” Christen bites down on her lip but she can’t contain the giddy, triumphant laugh that slips out. Tobin clenches her jaw shut and gets a light kiss to her cheek in response, a silent apology that works too well. Despite the encouragement, she mumbles, “You’re the most annoying girlfriend ever.”

“I’m still not your girlfriend because you still haven’t asked,” Christen primly, and correctly, points out.

“ _Fine_ ,” she bites out the word, but her smile tempers it, “Will you please... Tell your mom your girlfriend said hi?”

“Tobin!”

Okay, maybe that instinct to annoy her _girlfriend_ isn’t completely dead.

* * *

41\. _**“Can I go to sleep now?”**_

Christen turns her face into the pillow, trying to block out the light and the TV that Tobin’s refusing to shut off.

“Christen! You promised to finish the season.”

With a sigh, she flips onto her back and peeks an eye open. Still too bright. “Did I? Was I asleep?”

The mattress shifts, and she assumes Tobin’s moved to sit down but she’s not going to give in and check. Her best impression of someone asleep is ruined by Tobin poking at her cheek. “You never used to sleep this much,” she whines, as Christen springs into action and catches her hands before she resorts to trying to tickle her awake.

“I didn’t used to have this many _demands_ on my energy.” Christen regrets the words the moment she says them. She doesn’t even need to wait for Tobin’s smug smirk to appear, but there it is like clockwork anyway.

“Aww, am I wearing you out? Are you telling me Christen Press, of all people, needs to work on her _stamina?”_ Tobin waggles her eyebrows, and Christen tries so hard to ignore the challenge in her voice. It’s just going to lead to more teasing, which they’ve learned is basically foreplay to them, and she’ll never get to sleep.

Nope, she’s too competitive by half. The retort’s out of her mouth before she even finishes thinking of it. “More like it turns out you’re more annoying as my girlfriend than as my pain-in-the-ass best friend.”

Tobin’s jaw drops in some approximation of offense. “Who says I can’t be both?”

“Your complete inability to multitask?”

“Challenge _accepted_.”

Tobin smirks again, pushes her flat onto her back, then straddles Christen’s hips. It’s playing out exactly like she called it a minute ago, but Christen can’t bring herself to regret the lost sleep. Maybe in the morning when they’re sleepwalking through practice, but probably not even then.

* * *

42\. **_“You’re fogging up my glasses.”_**

Tobin doesn’t know what it is about the angle or maybe the temperature in Christen’s room, but it’s suddenly a problem when it literally never has been before. She tries to free a hand to reach her glasses and can’t really get there. Christen being sprawled all over her and halfway asleep isn’t really helping the situation. 

“Baby,” Christen mumbles, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes tiredly.

“It’s a real problem, Chris!” she complains again. Maybe Christen can’t sympathize _yet_ but she will soon according to the team’s optometrist.

Christen plucks the glasses off her face and reaches for the hem of her t-shirt. “What? No. I’m not insulting you. You didn’t let me finish. That was, like, a— It was— I was just, uh...” She pauses in the act of cleaning Tobin’s glasses for her, a simple gesture that somehow makes Tobin’s heart feel like bursting. 

If it weren’t ridiculously soon and because of the tiniest, practically insignificant thing, she might just tell Christen that she _lov_ —

It dawns on her suddenly. The awkwardness, the pause, what Christen’s _not_ actually saying. Tobin’s so used to all their teasing that she _assumed_ , but, “Did I just ruin you calling me a pet name?”

Christen unfreezes. She leans forward to slip Tobin’s clean glasses back into place, letting her get the full effect of Christen’s content smile in perfect vision. “ _Baby_ , no, of course, you didn’t.”

“ _Nice_ save,” Tobin grins. Even knowing what Christen’s reaction is going to be, she can’t help herself. “Maybe you shoulda been a keeper.”

Christen flops onto her back with a groan. “Alright, now you’re ruining it.”

* * *

43\. _**“How do you sleep at night?”**_

Christen is _appalled_ , even if that’s mainly for show because she likes (a little too much) how Tobin looks in her tie-dyed pink shirt. She turned away from her locker for a half a second, and Tobin’s practically stolen the shirt off her back, or out of her gym bag. What kind of girlfriend engages in ritual-interrupting behavior like that?

“Resorting to petty theft, Heath?”

Tobin ignores the clearly rhetorical questions as she frees her ponytail from under the shirt collar. After a wink, she walks back to her own locker and returns, holding out a familiar orange shirt. “Got you something, Chris.”

Rolling her eyes, Christen takes the offering and slips it over her head. Then they just grin stupidly at each other until Pinoe interrupts with, “Sure, take your time longingly gazing into each other’s eyes. It’s not like we have a game to win or anything.”

* * *

44\. _**“Here’s a fun idea: don’t get yourself killed.”**_

Christen offers a smile to dial down the stern warning. “Kinda fond of you, you know,” she adds on, squeezing Tobin’s wrist lightly, and her smile widens at the predictable shiver.

Tobin steps off her skateboard to brush a quick kiss across her lips. Her mouth heads for her ear next, retaliation for Christen’s obvious move. Even knowing it’s coming, Christen can’t help her shiver when Tobin whispers in her ear. And that’s before she hears Tobin say, “Love you, too, CP.”

She gasps, not dramatically or anything, but just quietly, in surprise. “I didn’t—” Christen starts to deny but isn’t sure she can do that with a straight face. “You don’t—”

It’s really too _soon_ , right? Not like they haven’t known each other for years. Not like they haven’t taken forever to get here. Not like they haven’t been skirting around the words and pretending love doesn’t shine through in every look, touch, and action. Okay, maybe more like it’s really way too late to finally say the words out loud.

Tobin smiles with the brightness of a thousand suns in the face of her hesitation. “You _meant_ it,” she answers confidently but somehow just short of the played-up cockiness Christen finds exasperating. “And so do I.”

The last part is said quietly with the ease and contentment Tobin only ever seems to experience on the pitch. It kind of makes Christen’s heart swell. They may have been stumbling around in the dark for years trying to find their way and they may have relied too heavily on their friendship to avoid confronting their feelings. But now that they have each other like they’ve always wanted, there’s nothing they’re more secure in and no one they’re more confident about. 

Christen narrows her eyes. Normally, she wouldn’t stand for anyone speaking for her, and Tobin _knows_ that, but, “You’re lucky I actually like— _love_ you.”

* * *

45\. _**“You know where to find me.”**_

Tobin calls out as a goodbye. She knocks twice on the frame of her locker then slowly starts to head out of the locker room, lingering by the entrance.

“Yeah, in Pressy’s bed!”

Tobin whirls around to level a glare at the room, but it’s too late. There’s a chorus of _ooh_ s, mixed with obvious laughter, and Tobin rolls her eyes and tries to come up with a quick retort to shut them up.

Too late again, Christen’s coming toward her, gym bag in hand, annoyed look on her face. This is exactly what they didn’t want to happen: to distract their easily distractible teammates and, most importantly, make their teasing even worse.

Tobin’s ready with an apology for leaving the door open for that one, but Christen calls over her shoulder, “Damn straight!”

Then, she grabs Tobin’s hand, pulls her close for a short but emphatic kiss, and pushes her into the hallway.

“See ya, losers!” Tobin adds with a smug grin, just slightly breathless from the kiss and trying to keep up with Christen’s pace.

A question of, “Why’d I think they’d be less annoying _together?”_ trails them down the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay sane, y’all.


End file.
